After our exhausting Friday, detailed in my last post, we ended up sleeping in a puppy pile of sweaty drunkenness in the hotel room. A painfully short time later, we dragged our sad, slightly hung-over asses out of bed at 8:00 am, desperately trying to convince ourselves that we really did want to go visit D.C. still.

Grumpy puppies don’t give a crap about national culture.

Foreword: This post is just chock full of obscenities and unnecessary capitalization. Started to feel bad, thought maybe I should warn you. Enjoy!

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4:00 AM

“BZZZ, BZZZ, BZZZ!”

“Hrrrm...whuh,” I blearily opened my eyes, disoriented. “Wha’zat?”

“BZZZ, BZZZ, BZZZ!!!”

“Guh. Shut up shut up shut up…”

I rolled out of bed, searching for the buzzing cellphone I’d set on my dresser a scant 4 hours before.

“Erica, it’s time. Come on, get up.”

“…hrmph.”

Nobody really asks me how my workday was anymore.

Note: I’m still only a veterinary assistant. Dr. Jarrett gets to do most of the really COOL gross stuff. Sad sigh.

At this point in my blogging adventure, I tend to consider any random thought as the possibility for a post. Unfortunately, a lot of these random thoughts are random enough that they wouldn't make more than a mouthful if they were audibly expressed, so they are promptly forgotten as the next shiny thing comes along.

After years of experience and careful self-examination, I recently came to a conclusion that most people assumed was laughably obvious.

I have anger-management issues.

Which means they probably shouldn’t point that out to my face, lest I punch them in theirs.

Ok, folks, it's that time again. If you feel it necessary, buckle up, because people aren't getting any saner, and I am not tired of writing about them yet. In fact, I sit vigilant with a keyboard and a sturdy internet connection, and cultivate my talent for snark until it can no longer be contained.

As I’ve grown into a moderately well-functioning adult, most aspects of myself that I thought permanent have changed irrevocably. I no longer have any aspirations to become a rock star. I no longer fear the loathsome tick. I no longer think that white socks are the end all and be all of Sockdom—black socks are where it’s at, especially if your washing machine requires precious quarters. I no longer eat so many carrots that my hands turn orange.

My job comes with no guarantee of safety. I didn't ask for one, and not a one was offered. I have been scratched, bitten, gnawed, peed, and spat upon, and none of it was much of a surprise to me. However, the aspect of my job that I did not expect, and that which continues to lower my opinion of the human race in general, is the owners.

Before you read this post, I’d like to get a few things straight. I am generally a very mature person, in speech, in actions, and in the way I carry myself. At least, that’s what people have told me for most of my life. Maybe they’re liars. Or maybe this is how maturity works. Either way, every once in a while there comes a day when all of that just breaks down, as if the universe has conspired to reveal my true inner 5-year-old.

You all have been introduced to Amelie the cat. If you don’t remember, or are just now starting to read my blog, you can find her introduction here:

http://www.kaiodee.com/blogs/superkaiodee/11/06/20/its-hard-when-you-can....